


Father Frost

by so_shhy



Series: ADHD Vitya [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ADHD, Gen, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_shhy/pseuds/so_shhy
Summary: She doesn't mean to be the wicked stepmother.





	Father Frost

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Tawabids for the beta.

For Lana Nikiforova, there’s nothing worse than food shopping.  It’s an exhausting expedition, trailing awkwardly from the grocer to the butcher, steering Max’s pushchair, with baby Katya against her chest and Pasha, her good boy, walking at her side.

It’s late when she gets home. She drags the pushchair up the couple of steps to the door and gets into the hall just as Katya starts to cry.

“Out!” Max pleads, struggling against his straps.

“Alright, alright, out you come.” She crouches and frees him. Katya yells louder, the wail she gives when she’s wet and uncomfortable. “She needs a change. Pashenka, please play with your brother. I don’t want him running around.”

“I want to read my book.”

“Play cars with Maximka. Please. I’ll read to you later while I’m feeding your sister.”

“Playing cars is boring,” says Pasha, with all the weariness a five-year-old can muster, but because he’s a lovely boy – so well-behaved, everyone always tells her – he takes Max’s fat little hand in his own, and informs him, “I’m having the police car. You can have the ambulance.”

“You’re such a help, little bear. Thank you.”

As she changes the baby she keeps up a crooning, wordless song. In her mind she’s reciting the day’s schedule. _Feed Katya around four thirty. Vitya back from practice just after. Dinner in the oven by half past five. Feed the boys. Bathtime. Bedtime._ Katya screams throughout the changing process, but quiets once she’s back in her clothes. Lana leaves her in her bouncer. There’s time – just – to put away the shopping and set a load of laundry to go. Then it’s feeding time.

In the lounge, Pasha is conducting imaginary races while Max happily pushes his ambulance back and forth. With Pasha’s book of fairy tales in hand, she settles down onto the sofa, unbuttons her shirt and lets Katya latch onto her breast. The baby suckles away, making a satisfied sound as the milk starts to flow. Lana begins to read, holding the book of fairy tales awkwardly so she can support the hungry baby and still turn the pages. All the while, she’s listening with half an ear for the front door to open, for Vitya’s skate bag to thump against the floor, for him to call out a hello.

When she finishes the story of The Golden Slipper and shifts Katya to her other breast, the clock informs her that it’s ten to five. There’s no sign of Vitya. She glances towards the phone in the hall, then down at Katya, wondering if she can justify disturbing the baby. Then she realises it’s pointless. Vitya’s cell phone, bought with his winnings from last year’s World Juniors, has been locked in Sasha’s desk for a week.

Pasha looks up from his game with a pout. “Mama, keep reading.”

By the end of The Frog Princess, Katya is asleep, face still pressed to the breast but little lips loose. Lana goes to put her down. Half her mind is on her mental checklist. _Make dinner, bathtime, bedtime_. The other half is on Vitya. She looks into the lounge to make sure Max is still happily occupied, then calls Coach Yakov.

“Is Vitya still with you?” she asks.

“No ,” says Yakov.  “I sent him off at the usual time.”

“He’s not home. He’s supposed to come straight home. Even if he missed his bus he’d be back by now.”

“He’ll turn up,” says Yakov, brusque and disinterested. “He’s probably found a dog he wants to play with.”

She should be worried about Vitya’s safety, out alone in a St Petersburg winter with the sun beginning to set. She isn’t. “He has homework,” she says.

Yakov grunts. “Does he? Well, tell him to do his stretches first.”

Lana says goodbye and goes to sit down at the kitchen table for a minute. She never swears in front of the boys, but in that moment she whispers a few words she wouldn’t want them to hear. Then she takes some deep breaths, in and out.

“Mama,” calls Max, toddling into the room. “Mama, wan' juice.”

“I’ll get you some juice, baby. One minute.”

He pushes his toy car against her leg. “Vroom,” he says. “Vroom, vroom. Mama, juice please.”

“Yes, alright.”

“Mama!” calls Pasha from the next room. “Please will you read the next story?”

“I’m busy, Pashenka, I’m sorry. You can read it yourself.”

She fetches Max his juice and gets on with putting dinner in the oven. Every noise from the street makes her shoulders tense. She tries to focus her attention on the meal and the boys, chopping and stirring in between checking on them, fetching them drinks, exclaiming over the things Pasha tells her and the toys Max presses into her hand. She tries not to look at the clock too often.

As she feeds the boys their simpler dinner, the stew cooks in the oven, bubbling away, salted and spiced but without any richness. It will be a shadow of the dish it ought to be. Rich stews are not allowed on a skater’s diet plan.

It’s just one more straw. He’s a nice boy, she knows that, but so many times, and for so many different reasons, she finds herself thinking, _If only he weren’t here, I could cope._

He’s Sasha’s son. She’s a terrible person, to think such things.

 

***

 

When the front door opens at twenty to seven she stops still, thrumming with tension, until she hears the thump of the skate bag on the floor.

Not Sasha. Vitya.

She goes to meet him, blinking fiercely as her eyes burn with the threat of tears. He’s shrugging off his winter coat, unwrapping the scarf from his neck, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Do you know what time it is?” she snaps. “You're supposed to come straight back here after practice. Have you forgotten what being grounded means?”

He looks at her, mild puzzlement on his face. Then he glances down at his watch and his eyes widen. “Oh shit. Is Papa home?”

“Where have you been?”

He shifts guiltily on his feet. “Nowhere.”

“ _Nowhere?”_ She presses her hand to her overheated forehead. She was a teenager herself not so long ago, she remembers saying the exact same thing, but she could get away with it occasionally. She was a good student, and generally well-behaved. “You’re unbelievable. Do you think your father is going to be satisfied with that answer?”

Vitya winces. “Is he here?” he asks again.

“Not yet.”

“Don’t tell him, Mama. Please. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I swear, and I didn’t mean to be late, I just didn’t think.”

Lana shakes her head, despairing. “Go upstairs and do your homework.”

“I have to do my stretches.”

“ _Now_ , Vitya.”

“Bita?” a small voice echoes her from the lounge. Max patters out of the room and down the hall towards them. “Hi!” he declares, waving clumsily as he runs.

Vitya breaks into a smile. “Hi, sunbeam,” he says, and steps around Lana to sweep the little boy up into his arms. “Woosh, you’re an aeroplane!”

Max squeals with delight. “Ah-plane!”

“Don’t over-excite him. I need to get them settled for bed.”

Pasha pokes his head out into the hall. “Vitya! Vitya, will you play snap with me?”

“Vitya has homework,” Lana asserts. She takes Max, whining and wriggling, out of Vitya’s arms. “And it’s your bathtime, both of you. Vitya, go to your room.”

“I don’t want a bath!” says Pasha, frowning. “I want to play with Vitya.”

Vitya makes a face. “Sorry, Pashenka. Not tonight.” He waves goodbye and goes upstairs with the air of one going to the gallows. Lana hears his bedroom door click closed and breathes a sigh of relief. That’s the moment Katya starts to scream.

 

***

 

Eventually she manages to get all three children bathed and in bed. Sasha comes home, looking tired and tense, in time to read the boys a story and kiss them goodnight. When he’s done, dinner is just about ready and she’s setting out plates and cutlery on the table. Sasha comes over to her and takes a stack of dishes out of her hands.

“How are you?” he asks. “Did the children behave themselves today?”

“Yes, they were fine.”

“Where’s Vitya?”

“Upstairs, doing his homework. If you finish this I’ll go and fetch him.”

She goes upstairs and knocks on Vitya’s door. There’s music audible through it. Not the pop or rock music that any normal fourteen year old might play. Something tinkling and classical.

“Vitya!” she calls, then turns the handle and goes in.

Vitya looks up at her from floor-level. He’s in a full split, bent sideways with his head almost touching his knee. His elderly laptop – a hand-me-down from Sasha – is set up on the floor beside him, CD drive whirring over the sound of the music, a skater swooping back and forth across the screen.

“Hi, Mama,” he says. “What’s up?”

“It’s dinner time. Did you finish your homework?”

She already knows the answer, and it only takes a glance at his desk to confirm. There’s a worksheet there, with questions beside little diagrams of chemicals. The only thing he’s filled in is his name.

“I was going to in a minute,” he says.

“You… oh, never mind. Just come down for dinner.”

“Did you tell Papa I was late?”

“No,” she says, and he gives her a shining smile that she doesn’t deserve at all.

Dinner is one of her few scraps of adult time – a family meal, just her and Sasha and Vitya. It’s precious. She might feel guilty at not mentioning Vitya coming home late, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to let it ruin the evening. She wants to enjoy dinner. She wants to talk to her husband about his day, and tell him about hers, and hear him laugh.

And yet, somehow, that night’s meal is ruined anyway. From the second Vitya walks in, Sasha’s expression hardens and the temperature in the room plummets. Lana picks at her watery stew, desperately wishing she were anywhere else, trying to tune out their voices. Sasha sounds like a broken record: “I’m not asking for much, Vitya, just pay attention in class and do your damn homework!”  Vitya keeps his head down, shovelling food into his mouth between mumbled excuses.

It’s a familiar scene, one that replays itself at least a couple of times a week, but today it’s even worse than usual. She doesn’t quite know how or why, but the argument swells until Sasha is yelling and Vitya is crying.

She puts down her fork. She goes and sits in the rocking chair in Katya’s tiny room, and watches her baby sleep, and pretends she can’t hear.

 

***

 

They always go to bed early, straight after dinner: Vitya so he can be up at four for practice; Sasha to drive him to the rink; Lana because she’ll be up twice in the night to feed the baby.

She’s in bed first, but is still awake when Sasha comes to join her. He undresses in silence. She can see tension in the line of his back, and can feel it when he slides into the bed beside her.

“Darling,” she says. “Talk to me.”

He gives a long sigh. “I only want what’s best for him.”

“I know.”

“I lost my temper.” He rolls over to face her. In the warm light from their bedside lamp his face looks softer, young and lost. “I spoke to Yakov today. He wants Vitya to quit school altogether when he turns fifteen.”

“Oh, Sasha.”

“He wants him to concentrate on training. As though he doesn’t spend all his time on it already.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no, of course. I’m not going to have a high school drop-out for a son. He’s ignorant. He’s barely educated. He needs some qualifications, some options for when he grows up.”

“He’s very good at his skating,” she says. Her heart beats a little faster.

“ _Skating_. You know, back when he started it was supposed to be a hobby. Something to tire him out, so he wouldn’t be so… and now look at him. Acting as though nothing else matters. He has a brain in there somewhere, if he’d just use it.”

“He’ll be a champion, Yakov thinks. The Olympics… isn’t that something to aspire to?”

“Where will he be in twenty years if he never finishes school, never gets a degree? What good will some silly medal do him then? Isn’t it reasonable that I want more for him?” He pauses, waiting for a response. When she doesn’t give one, he prompts, “What do you think?”

She takes a deep breath in and out. In and out. It doesn’t stop her voice from shaking when she speaks. “I think… I think if he’s going to train full time he should live somewhere nearer the rink.”

He stares at her. His brow wrinkles. She can see his confusion and surprise at the answer, the non-sequitur. And then he just waits. He doesn’t tell her that she’s misunderstood him. He doesn’t correct her, or object. That’s one of the things she loves most about him. He listens to her.

“Maybe…” she says, “maybe Yakov would consider having Vitya stay with him. He lives so close, and if he wants to have Vitya train as much as possible that would be easier. During the week, perhaps. Or…”

_Or all the time._

She can hardly bear to think it, let alone say it aloud. But Sasha knows her. She can see in his eyes the moment he realises what she’s really asking.

“Lana…”

“Sasha, please.”

His hand comes up to squeeze hers. “That’s what you think would be best?”

She manages a nod. “He loves skating.”

He’s quiet for a long time. She can’t look at him while she waits. Then he says, “I’ll consider it.”

When she begins to cry, he puts his arms around her and whispers gentle endearments. _My sweet, my star, it’s okay._

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Vitya bounds into the kitchen, his long hair flying loose behind him. He grabs her hands and kisses her on both cheeks.

“Thank you, Mama! You’re wonderful!”

She laughs. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“I’m quitting school!” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. “Right after New Year’s. No more school, no more homework, nothing. Can you believe it? I never thought Papa would let me, but he said you talked him into it. Maybe he’s finally coming around to skating!”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, that’s nice, Vitya.”

“I’m going to live with Yakov. Ugh, he’ll be such a pain, but it’s worth it. I’ll miss you though, Mama. I’ll miss the babies.”

“I’ll miss you too,” she says, feeling her throat close up as she looks into his sparkling eyes. He’s taller than her. So grown up already. So like his father, if you only look at the outside. “We’ll all miss you. But you won’t be far away. You’ll come and see us. Whenever you like.”

“Of course. And you’ll come and see me! Max hasn’t ever seen me skate.”

“Yes,” she manages. “I’ll bring him.”

His eyes widen. “Hey… are you crying? Don’t cry, Mama, please. What did I do? I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“No, no, it’s nothing you did. I’m sorry, Vityusha. I just… this is what you want, isn’t it? You’ll be happy?”

“It’s perfect! No school! Of course I’m happy.” He stretches his arms over his head and gives a little twirl on the spot, all dancer-grace. “Can I play with the boys, or is it too close to bedtime?”

“No, that’s fine. But take them upstairs if you’re going to be loud. Katya’s sleeping.”

She watches him leave, hears his feet on the stairs and Max’s delighted chatter. Then she walks into the lounge on shaking legs, sits down and puts her head in her hands.

After a few moments she feels a touch on her knee.

“Mama?” says Pasha. His eyes are wide and uncertain as he looks up into her face.

She musters up a smile. “I’m just feeling sad right now, little bear. Will you come and sit with me for a while?”

“I’ll read to you!” He scampers across the room to fetch his book, then climbs up onto the couch next to her. “Which story do you want to hear?”

“You pick, Pashenka.”

Pasha climbs into her lap and starts on Father Frost. He reads steadily, barely stumbling over the longer words. Lana listens without hearing the story at all. Instead, she hears Max giggling, calling, “Bita! Ah-plane!” and sees Vitya’s clear, happy smile in her mind.

“Mama,” Pasha complains, squirming, “you’re squeezing me too tight.”

“Sorry, baby,” she says. She forces herself to relax her arms, letting him resettle himself in comfort. As he goes back to the story, the tale of the ice king, the wicked stepmother, the weak, obedient husband, she closes her eyes and whispers it again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”


End file.
